You probably think I’m lazy, you probably think I’m a skiver, you probably think I’m a cunt, you probably think I’m unemotional.
This doesn’t phase me. Because me grip on reality right now is extremely limited. The lucidity of this current feeling is similar to the lucid drunkness of pure ethanol, but with no grogginess, but no impetus to move. My mind is racing at 1000 miles an hour, always reaching the same low, dark and shit-stained part of my brain, whichever road I take.
Pressure is bulding, lines of support snapping, or being cut by me. Paranoia creeps into my brain from every angle attacking my mind like a hidden army of ghosts. Guilt now the main driving force behind every choice.
Food and cigarettes provide little solace, the book of thoughts has been somewhat desecrated and thrown across the room.
All I want to do is talk. but I have no voice.
The people I want to talk to are too heavily involved, or I don’t trust.